


The Clown Prince

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The John only Paul gets to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clown Prince

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic from livejournal's johnheartpaul comm.

Paul sat in the bed, covers wrinkled around him, and reached for the cigarettes and lighter on the bedside table. The light of the flame blinded him briefly but his eyes soon readjusted, the orange glow of the cigarette giving the room its only illumination. 

He stroked the head that lay on his belly, careful not to disturb its owner. John was peaceful only in repose, and both needed that peace right now.

The day had been insane, more so than usual. John had been in rare form, manic energy leading him into increasingly frenetic behaviour, pulling the others along in his wake. He’d traded insults with photographers, smiling as they took pictures that would never reveal the obscenities that rolled off his tongue. He’d sparred with reporters who’d tried to get him to say for the record the things they’d heard him say off. He’d mooned passers-by from the window of the limo, had danced naked in the rain on the hotel balcony, had consumed copious amounts of scotch, and had jumped around the stage like a man possessed.

Paul couldn’t remember the last time that he’d laughed that hard.

As always, though, after the high came the low. When the door of the suite finally closed behind the last guest, when they were alone with no one to see, John had collapsed like a rag doll. He’d slid to the floor beside the bed, head in hands, quiet. When Paul had sat next to him John had laid his head on Paul’s shoulder and cried.

Paul had comforted as best he could, had listened as John enumerated the various ways in which his life was shit and the bubble about to burst, had held him and soothed him and loved him the way only he could. 

Then he’d undressed him and taken him to bed, knowing John would believe the physical act more easily than the spoken word.

Now John slept, curled next to Paul, head resting on his belly, calm at last. 

Paul enjoyed the manic John, the clown prince who led the merry dance, but he loved this John, the John who revealed more in his sleep than he ever did awake. The John who trusted him, who was willing to let Paul see him at his best, at his worst, at his most vulnerable. 

Paul smiled and lit another cigarette, keeping watch in the dark.


End file.
